


The New Adventures of Tony Stark: The Heart of Hekla

by musamihi



Category: Marvel Noir
Genre: Action/Adventure, Christmas, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Iceland, Pulp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep inside an Icelandic volcano, there's a mysterious force the Axis powers mean to harness to gain control of the North Atlantic.  For Tony Stark and his band of adventurers, this is just another adventure to the ends of the earth - and, perhaps, another chance to prove something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Adventures of Tony Stark: The Heart of Hekla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epicycles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicycles/gifts).



> Happy holidays, epicycles! I had so much fun sending these characters on a pulpy, fantastical romp - I hope you enjoy it. Please forgive the comic book science, and the considerable artistic license taken with geography.

December 22, 1939. Faxa Bay.

The sky is green, here in the Arctic. Snakes of light curl in sinister silence through a dome of cold stars that won’t see the sun again for months, over a black ocean breaking endlessly on a black and rocky shore. That anything could live here seems impossible – but the waters are teeming with treachery. German boats lurk beneath the surface like silent sharks, and in every wave and every flash of emerald light, I imagine them streaming to the surface to surround us. Our little ship would be easy to catch and to destroy, even if her crew are made of stronger stuff. We’ve sailed from Scotland, hopping from one desolate island to the next, and, in order to preserve our most notorious passenger’s anonymity, we’ve come under the drab false colors of a fishing vessel.

What do we seek? What merits a miserable journey into the dark and desperate north, to the remote void of the Kingdom of Iceland?

We don’t know. But there’s something here the Germans think worth guarding – you can feel their urgency in the wind, in the skin-prickling knowledge that, beneath your feet, beneath this fragile, heaving deck, the man-made monsters of the sea are waiting to wreck anyone who dares to come close. There’s something here they desire very much.

Tony Stark is going to find out what it is. And he’s going to take it.

_BANG!_

A report like a thousand gunshots crashes across the water. I whip around just in time to see a plume of shocking white leaping out of the darkness off our stern, and a wave rolling, rolling along until it’s absorbed into the toss of the sea.

 _What was that?_ I ask James Rhodes, our resident naturalist – and so much more, our Enlightenment to Stark’s Renaissance – as the noise fades to the horizon like dying thunder. His face is cautious and alert, as composed in this wilderness as in the Oak Room. _I don’t know,_ he tells me. _If I had to guess –_

Suddenly his chin turns up, his eyes widen – and my jaw drops, as a shape too huge to comprehend bursts into the sky with a deafening roar of water. It’s massive, a leviathan, an impenetrable shadow – a whale, an indescribable whale that blocks out the light of the aurora borealis and plunges us all into a new and far more terrible night. It seems to hang in the air forever. But of course it must come down, and when it does, I can feel the impact in my bones. Our ship pitches like a toy, and I’m thrown from my spot at the larboard railing into the waist. _Get below_ , Rhodes is saying as he hauls me to my feet. I hear a whoop from the bows, and, looking over my shoulder as I’m hurried below decks, I can see Stark hanging from the sheets, leaning into the spray.

Impossibly, the creature leaps again.

The rest of our trip ashore is wet, hobbled, and slow. As we drag our cargo – Stark and Rhodes’s equipment, my papers – from the ship's boat to safety in a tiny but sheltered cove, a man appears from behind one of the looming rocks we had hoped would hide us from prying eyes. He seems ancient, bound up against the cold in the worn, salty wool and leather of a fisherman – but when he lifts his hat away from his eyes I can see that he’s closer to thirty than forty. Rhodes engages him at once in the island’s heavy yet somehow elegant tongue, and reports that he’s only confused – as well he might be, to see strangers washed ashore in the middle of the night – and concerned for our safety.

Stark is wary. I know he’s right to be. But this man will help us, I can see it in his face – there’s an age there that his youth belies, an old soul with wisdom too deep to spend itself on robbery or backstabbing.

 _He wants to know why we’ve come here_ , Rhodes conveys. Stark hesitates; and then, without taking his eyes from the fisherman’s face, he points back toward the ocean, where the only ships remaining are submerged, invisible. _Tell him_ , he says, _we’re here for the same reason they are_.

The fisherman nods at once, and answers. He doesn’t seem to be afraid, but every line of his face is grave.

Rhodes cocks his head. _He says you seek the Heart of Hekla._

And so we have our mission. I should be relieved – and to tell the truth, I am, for I like to know which way I’m going, and I know Stark will set us as direct a course as possible – but as we follow the fisherman into his warm and tiny cottage, in my mind’s eye, all I see is: Tony Stark, leaning over the side of the ship into the face of a titan, and laughing like a boy.

* * *

Tony Stark leaned over the side of the ship and threw up.

They’d been wearing back and forth off the coast of the Reykjanes Peninsula for three days, waiting for the signal from their on-shore contact that would clear them to slip through the German blockade. Clouds blanketed the sky in uneven layers, lying one on top of the other, and the only light was the grey of the moon where it slipped through the cracks. On board, they were restricted to dark lanterns. Three days, by his watch; but in the near-perpetual darkness of the Arctic winter, they felt timeless, one unbroken purgatory of bobbing up and down on the frigid, turbulent sea, up and down, up and –

His stomach heaved again. He gave a strangled, ineffectual sort of hack; but there was nothing left in him to expel, and he hung there, miserable and aching, staring into the black water. 

Rhodey stepped up to the railing beside him – upwind. “It’s a little late in the journey to start getting seasick.”

“I’m not seasick.” He didn’t _get_ seasick. He never had – but then, he’d never had to sail in place for this long, without aim, without velocity, completely at the mercy of the ocean’s own rhythm. “It was that goddamned cod.”

“Hm.” He never needed more than a syllable to relate his skepticism. “I don’t think so. I feel fine.”

“Well,” Tony said, glowering down along the hull, grasping weakly for some retort. He came up empty and surly. “Good for you.” A sigh caught his attention; he turned his face enough to see Pepper Potts, scratching at a notebook by the dim light of her lantern. “I think we can leave this part out, Mr. Finlay.”

“Are there any whales to be found here, Mr. Rhodes?” she asked, ignoring him entirely. “Very large ones? Carnivorous, perhaps?”

“Ah, yes,” Rhodey said, doldrums-flat. “The dreaded Minke.”

Pepper tutted, and went back to work.

“Dying of boredom’s going to be pretty hard to dress up.” Tony planted his hands on the rail and managed, somehow, to drag himself upright. He was stiff with cold and could feel himself starting to freeze up in the damp. His heart, at least, was going, if not strong; he hadn't asked much of it in recent days. “Someone should walk the plank, keep things interesting. I volunteer.”

“We have supplies to wait for another two days.” Even Rhodey didn’t sound like he relished the prospect, exactly - but he clapped Tony on the shoulder and _almost_ smiled, all the same, as he pulled out his monocular. “More, if you’ve lost your appetite.” 

Tony had lost just about every appetite he’d ever had. But he watched the shore with his naked eye with, if not hunger, at least a little hope. The signal would come, and if it didn’t, well, he’d never felt too beholden to other people’s ideas about what was safe - what was prudent. If he couldn’t slip through a sleepy blockade of an island of whale-fed sheep farmers, he had no business here in the first place. He’d taken the job, and he meant to see it through - less out of some devotion to the ideal of finishing what one started than to satisfy the same drive that still so often felt as though it propelled him everywhere, never mind his recent protestations of renewed vision, of _service_. General Fury had called him (a joint venture with the British called, at this point, for a discreet and not entirely official actor), and he’d answered, but striking blows for the nation’s interests abroad was less compelling than uncovering whatever mysterious power was drawing the Axis’ secret focus so sharply onto Iceland. There were hints and rumors in the briefings he’d been given that it was a weapon, something that would allow its owner not only to control a strategic foothold in the North Atlantic, but also to destroy anyone who opposed them.

He was going to find out what it was. And - he was almost sure, he had almost decided - he was going to destroy it.

Of course, as a neutral power, the United States only had so much invested in the long-term project of maintaining a hold on Iceland - and that was where their contact came in, about whom Tony knew relatively little. He was a scientific officer ( _we’ll see about that_ ) from one of the units that would be heading up the hopefully fast-impending Allied occupation. He knew his way around the island, he knew the local lore and gossip. Whether he’d known what he was getting himself into when he’d requested specialized assistance, Tony could only imagine, but it hardly mattered. He didn’t really expect to need the man’s help.

Maybe now was the time to set the tone. _Screw your signal._ He opened his mouth to give the order, to stand in -

“There.” Rhodey’s monocular was trained on a spot just north of the main port. “There’s the signal. He’s setting us a course,” he said, a little louder, for the benefit of the navigator, who was rushing to his side. “Mark this down …”

The journey through the bay was tense, but quiet - precise and uneventful. Piling into the ship's boat, they put in to a largeish cove to disembark with their few pieces of luggage and equipment. The unforgiving rocks jutting up on all sides sheltered them from prying eyes. When they finally clambered onto land - Rhodey, Pepper, then Tony - they stood in the windy whistle of that landing, and waited.

A minute later, maybe two, a man appeared, climbing over the rock. He was bundled up, much as they all were, against the cold, so it was difficult to make out much about him; but he was rangy, perhaps Tony’s height, and when he tugged his scarf down away from his mouth, there was something acidic and humorless in his face that Tony instantly disliked, that provoked a prompt, internal _oh, brother_. He wore glasses with rounded, silver frames, and he regarded each of them in turn for just slightly too long - landing with faint confusion and unmistakable disapproval on Pepper.

“Albert,” Tony said, drawing the man’s attention back in his direction.

“Abraham,” came the reply. 

Passcodes exchanged, they stood for another beat in silence. “Well,” said their contact, without much in the way of enthusiasm (or, for that matter, the accent that Tony had expected), “let’s get inside.”

It wasn’t a long walk. They each carried their bags slung over their shoulders - despite the newcomer’s halting, rather belated offer to carry Pepper’s - and Tony and Rhodey between them carried the crate with their more fragile goods. Within twenty minutes they’d come to a small cabin on the south slope of a hill, apparently quite without neighbors. As they filed inside, there was a palpable sense of relief; it was warmer than Tony had remembered any place could be, and it smelled like a hot meal. They shed coats, scarves, boots, and hats, and stood, slightly disheveled, in the cheerful heat of the stove.

“I’m Lieutenant Banner,” their contact said, without preface or pleasantry, “of the Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa. I think perhaps you’d better make the introductions.”

“Sure thing.” Whatever got them on their way to _dinner_ quickest. Tony found his appetite had suddenly revived. “This is Mr. James Rhodes, my friend, assistant, and all-around expert on pretty much anything that walks, grows, or quakes.” There was a handshake; Tony hesitated half a moment before adding: “And, as much as your assistance is appreciated, I think we’re very well provided for in terms of scientific capacity, so if you -”

“I look forward to working with you,” Banner interrupted, giving Rhodey a tight, obdurate smile.

Rhodey nodded.

“And _this_ ,” Tony continued, tabling that discussion for the moment, “is my chronicler -”

“Your chronicler?”

Unaccustomed to being cut across by strangers quite this many times in any one conversation, Tony found he didn’t care for it. “My chronicler. You know,” he said, with a certain bright innocence. “Like a writer.” 

“Of course - I’m very sorry.” Banner smiled at him just a touch too sweetly. “I don’t get much time for dime novels.”

“Pepper Potts, Lieutenant Banner,” Pepper interjected, thrusting her hand at him. He took it, and had the grace to look faintly embarrassed. “Or Frank Finlay, if we’re using pseudonyms. This is all delightfully cloak-and-dagger.”

Something flashed across Banner’s face for just a moment - and almost as soon as it appeared he’d locked it down again, a skill Tony decided he’d do well to remember he possessed. But no matter how close a guard a man kept on his reactions, no matter how fleeting the glimpse, Tony would always recognize _that_ look, having felt the underlying disturbance himself so, so many times before. It was the face of a man who’d just thought: _oh, shit_.

He recovered nicely, for whatever little that was worth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Potts,” he said, having apparently turned over the stone under which he hid his manners. “I’m sorry to say I wasn’t expecting you. There may be some awkwardness over the sleeping arrangements.”

“None at all, Lieutenant.” She gave him a smile, her gaze never once wandering around the very obviously one-room cabin. “An adventure’s an adventure.”

“Of course.” Banner had begun to wring his hands gently together; he stopped, stepped back, and gestured to the little square table beside the stove. “I expect you’re all hungry.”

They were, in fact, famished. And soon they were seated around the table, three of them all but inhaling lamb stew and bread, while Banner, who hadn’t lived the last couple of weeks on a sailor’s fare, took advantage of the silence to explain what he knew. 

“Originally,” he began, his glasses drooping down his long, narrow nose as he buttered the end of a loaf, “it was assumed that the German interest in Iceland was simply due to its obvious strategic value - a base of operations here would, of course, provide them a degree of control over North Atlantic marine traffic that would prove nothing short of disastrous. I wouldn’t call it an _open_ secret that both sides are in the early stages of actively mounting an invasion with an eye to a land occupation, but anyone with half an eye for tactics can see that it’s the next step. My mission here actually was, at first, to incite popular sentiment in favor of an Allied force -”

“And they sent _you_?” Tony asked, around a large chunk of onion. Pepper dug her heel into his foot.

“- But in a country so sparsely populated, the benefits would have been minimal. At any rate, I was able to compile some useful information about the state of the blockade - which you experienced firsthand. And I began to notice an unusual pattern of expeditions - generally by the same three or four men, whom I knew to be German informants - to Hekla.”

“The Gateway to Hell,” Rhodey said, smiling almost fondly down at his plate.

Banner inclined his head to him with a sympathetic roll of his eyes. “Well, of course it is.”

“How’s that?” Pepper had suddenly perked up; Tony could see her struggling between the need to grab a pen and the desire to keep her fork in her hand.

“Hekla is a rather large, persistently snow-capped volcano perhaps a hundred miles south and east of here,” Banner said, drawing a line across the table with the moisture that had condensed beneath his glass. All of the reluctance and suspicion he seemed to have harbored against her had quite evaporated. “It’s unusually active, with two or three eruptions per century. It’s impressive-looking, and it blows a lot of smoke, so naturally it’s acquired a reputation it doesn’t quite deserve.” (Tony stopped chewing.) “The gates of hell, the prison of Judas Iscariot, whatever you like: it’s captured the imagination of the under-educated and overly-fanciful for some time, and now it seems to have drawn the attention of Berlin. I’ve made a couple of investigations myself, although I’ve been unable to get as deep into any of the craters as I’d like. But from what I’ve observed, there is …” He trailed off for a moment, pushing his bread into his mouth to excuse the delay. “There is something there. I think it likely to be dangerous. If it fell into the wrong hands, it would turn what might be a simple strategic foothold into a launching pad for an attack that could easily end any war.” At that, Pepper could no longer resist: out came the notebook. “It’s my opinion, shared by my superiors, that it needs to be destroyed.”

“What kind of an attack?” Tony watched him carefully, ready to seize on any fluctuation, be it ever so minor.

Banner’s face was perfectly stony. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

Rhodey dragged a piece of bread through his empty bowl, the picture of nonchalance. “What’s your specialty, Lieutenant Banner?”

“Nor that.”

“And in the next issue of _New Adventures_ , Lieutenant,” Pepper chimed in, scribbling away, “what would you like to be called?”

The corner of his mouth ticked up a quarter of an inch. “Oh - nothing at all, if you please.”

* * *

The next morning - distinguished from the night that had come before it only by a small pot of ersatz coffee and cold meat instead of warm - they prepared to set out for the mountain. Rhodey studied the heavily-annotated map Banner had stashed on the dash of his battered Jeep; Pepper took advantage of the last few idle minutes of the day to get some drafting done; and Tony sorted through the crate of equipment they’d stored outside the house (to preserve its very scant space), explaining it piece by piece to Banner, who was crouched beside him - thoroughly absorbed. His descent into the mountain had so far been hampered by his lack of suitable protective gear, ventilation, heat-resistant implements, and other items Tony was in a unique position to provide.

“This is excellent,” Banner muttered, pulling a length of rope (or, more precisely, ultrafine tungsten-fiber cable) through his hand. “Excellent.”

“It’ll withstand full immersion in around five thousand degrees –”

“I should say six, if it’s tungsten.” 

“- Which should be more than strong enough,” Tony pressed on, “even if we need to leave something behind long-term. We’re about an eighteen-hour trip from any significant backup, even by air -”

“Closer to twelve.”

“- But we don’t really know what we’re dealing with, yet, _do_ we.” Tony waited, increasingly irritated, for an answer; but Banner was only attending to him enough to correct him, apparently, the remainder of his attention devoted to pawing through Tony’s _excellent_ collection. “You know,” he said, rocking back on his heels and digging his fingers with practiced indifference under a patch of moss, “you should ask -”

“That moss is at least five hundred years old.”

“You _really_ should ask Pepper to tell you about her time in the Namib Desert. She did a great piece for _Wanderers_ , uh, _The Welwitschia Cape_ -”

“ _The Welwitschia Cloak._ ”

Tony grinned. Banner froze. It was hard to make out in the lantern light, but Tony thought he saw a hint of color creeping into his face.

“Why, Lieutenant,” he said, with a deep and preening satisfaction, “I thought you didn’t have time for dime novels.”

Banner pretended to be engrossed by a flare gun. His mouth set in a heavy, unhappy twist. “Cultural osmosis is a powerful force.”

“ _That’s_ why you looked at Pepper like she crawled out from under a log. You were disappointed. You had your little heart set on meeting Frank Finlay. She’s giving up the pen name, by the way. You’ll be Pepper Potts’ debut issue.”

“We should get going.” Banner stood, brushing off his hands.

“No, don’t be shy. I bet if you ask very nicely, she’ll sign you a copy of the next _New Adventures of Tony Stark_ to keep under your pillow.”

“The space under my pillow is spoken for, thank you. By someone who doesn’t have quite so impressive a mustache.”

“No one does, Lieutenant. Hey.” Tony rose to to his feet, and reached out to block Banner’s path to the house; Banner stopped half a pace before running into his arm, and fixed him with a leaden glare. “I'm serious. There’s nothing wrong with a good story. Especially out here - what the hell else do you have to do?”

“Well, if you mean aside from reconnaissance, report-writing, and playing host to showboating Americans - there’s a hot spring on the other side of the hill. I find it very relaxing.”

“Yeah, well - maybe you should go take a dip.” There was a heat creeping into Tony’s voice that he’d have preferred to keep out of it, but something about talking to Banner felt like striking the same iron, over and over and over, generating nothing but sound. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I would love it if you loosened up enough to let it go before we climb inside a mountain together.”

“I will not _loosen up_.” Banner drew up a little, his lantern hanging in one hand down by his thigh; the shadows on his face swayed with it, shrinking, elongating. “This isn’t a game to me. I’m not doing this to see it splashed all over the papers back home. I’ve been at this post for a very long time - I’ve worked harder than _you_ can imagine. I take this very seriously.”

“ _So do I!_ ” Tony knew, perhaps, in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t quite fair to be wounded - but all the same, the prick was there.

“You’ll forgive me if I find that difficult to believe. Excuse me.” Banner nudged his arm aside; Tony let it fall. “We should be going soon.”

“Yeah,” Tony muttered, watching him disappear into the house. “You’re excused.” He stood alone for a moment, his shoulders curled against the wind that blew the sound of the water from the west, hovering in a chilled and gloomy sulk - and then he kicked the crate’s lid shut with a _crack_.

* * *

December 23, 1939. Hekla.

There’s a scent that permeates everything in this country - it’s in the water, in the ground, on the wind. It’s the smell of sulfur. I find now that in small doses, it’s taken on a strangely luxurious aspect for me - for all warmth in Iceland comes from the earth. Sulfur means hot springs; sulfur means sitting in warm water up to your neck while the craggy alien landscape freezes around you, lounging in comfort in a world in which you might as well be the only living soul.

But we must go below the springs. We must go under the earth. To find the Heart of Hekla, we must travel down, down, down into the sprawling, angry mountain that stands as white as bleached bone against the night, into the place fearful monks have called the Gateway to Hell. We must go where the stench of sulfur is so dense and overwhelming that there can be no question why, for time immemorial, God’s wrath has been described as _fire_ and _brimstone_.

Our fisherman friend has proved to be generous. We’ve spent a warm and blissfully dry night in his small but comfortable cottage, and though his stores are meager, he is free with them. In his kindness, I detect a certain sadness - he lives by himself in his little house by the sea, and must see visitors very rarely. There are signs in his careful housekeeping, in a few nice and delicate belongings to be found in corners and cupboards, that he hasn’t always been alone. So I’m unsurprised when, as we prepare in the early morning to set out for Hekla Fell itself, he offers to come along as our guide.

Stark tells him it’s unnecessary, that he’s given more than we could hope to expect. But he insists. And truly, he’s no imposition: we’re happy to have him as we begin the long hike toward such a forbidding end. He’s a cheerful influence, and knowledgeable. He tells Rhodes the monster that nearly wrecked our ship has a very long name - nine syllables, by my count - and laughs at us as we take turns trying to pronounce it.

But when we make our first stop to eat and rest, our good cheer cools. We’re at the mountain’s feet; I can feel its bulk. 

_Tell me about the Heart of Hekla_ , Stark says, and our guide’s smile fades. But he obliges, and while he speaks a language foreign to me, his tone needs no translation. It’s a hush of deep respect and dread.

Deep inside of Hekla, there is a force that’s existed here before man ever came to this island - a force as old and older than the mountain itself, a force that existed beneath the ground when Hekla was still just a hill under the sea. With every eruption, Hekla’s heart comes closer and closer to the surface. Slowly, slowly, over the last two thousand years, it has been climbing, whether by the natural processes of the earth, or - as people here believe - by its own sinister and indomitable volition. When it will finally emerge from the darkness and into the world of men, no one knows. Some believe that prayer keeps it at bay, others gifts; some think that, so long as man stays where he belongs, outside of Hekla’s inner sanctum, the Heart will leave the country in peace. All agree: it is evil.

 _And what if someone tried to take it?_ Stark asks, gazing at the jagged line that Hekla makes on the horizon. _What if a man tried to use it for his own ends?_

Unworthy men, the legend says, who touch the Heart of Hekla are poisoned with its wickedness. They do not die - not at once - but live to climb out of the mountain, to brag of their accomplishments to their friends. But slowly, surely, their hubris eats at them. They waste to nothing and go mad. One by one, every man, woman, and child who’s listened to their boastful folly succumb to the same slow, silent death. The piece of the Heart these men bring back as proof of their victory disintegrates and disappears. Our guide has never known anyone who did such a thing, or died from it - no one has made the attempt, he believes, in two hundred years at least.

Stark’s eyes never falter. _And what about worthy men?_

For some time, our guide is silent. But he answers.

True valor will vanquish the Heart - so goes the story. But it has never happened.

 _We shouldn’t touch it_ , Rhodes says. I know from the way he looks at Stark that he’s not translating. This is his advice.

He’s right.

Stark stands, hauling on his pack. _We don’t have a choice._

And I suppose he’s right, too. As we speak, there are others - others with motives far less pure - considering taking the Heart for themselves. What kind of danger will they bring home with them - or carry across the sea to a home that isn’t theirs? What disaster will they unleash, and where?

I do my best to keep this in mind when at last, after a long, frozen march, we reach the crest of the mountain, and I look down for the first time into Hekla. There’s a breath rising out of the crevice, hot and stinking. The snow that clings to the mountain in all other places has retreated here. 

At least we’ll be warm.

The climb down is treacherous and dark, although we all carry torches. Stark takes the lead, slipping and scrabbling every third or fourth step along the slick, pitted rock. The slope is gradual and uneven, which makes for something like a natural stair - although a perilous one - and I find myself thinking of the people who’ve walked this way before us. Dead, every one of them, if our guide is correct; are we next? What will we take home with us, when we leave this place? Would we do better to find a hut and live out or days in solitude, like our lonely fisherman? The prospect makes me feel as though the weight of the land above us might collapse and crush us all at any moment. Happily, the path is soon steep enough that I have no choice but to focus entirely on staying upright. We don’t have room for fear.

It’s impossible to describe the feeling of coming near the Heart. We all know it - and I know it when I feel it, in my bones before my brain. It’s the feeling that someone is staring at you through a doorway you’ve forgotten to shut.

I think all four of us feel it at the same time, because our heavy breathing quiets, our labored trampling becomes more careful and more tentative, our aching backs are suddenly upright and tense. In the glow of our torches I see everyone’s jaws set like stone. Our guide is daunted, but carries on, straight ahead. Rhodes is coiled, ready to act, and his eyes move over every ledge and corner that we can see. Stark is so intent I wonder if he remembers the rest of us are there - but despite the harsh purpose on his face, the sweat and soot and dirt that covers him and all of us, in his eyes the smile is unmistakable. I lose sight of him as he passes behind a wall - and his footfalls stop. My heart leaps into my throat. 

_Oh_ , he says. We rush to gather in behind him.

 _Oh_. The Heart is vast, at once crystalline and liquid, bleeding and needling into the stone of the mountain. It seems to twist and flow within itself, like something molten, but that may be a trick of our torches, because it’s also solid, angular, divided into a universe of flawless facets - the longer I look at it, the less it holds one form. I see one heart; and then I see a thousand. In its depths, it writhes and splits and glitters like a shower of stars or a log bursting in a furnace. Copper and brilliant, fevered rose, it calls to my mind the leaves of a sugar maple in fall, their brilliance exposed only by their dying.

Stark steps toward it.

 _Tony._ Rhodes’s voice is low; soft. Stark doesn’t look back at him, but he stops.

Our guide begins to speak. In any language, a prayer is easy to recognize.

It’s then that the mountain itself begins to shake. Stark whirls to face the way we came, as though expecting some betrayal, and Rhodes shoves his torch into the dark. Our guide’s praying grows louder. As if in response, the shaking grows stronger.

 _Out_ , Rhodes says. _You think?_ Stark replies, hooking his arm around our guide and hauling him away.

As halting and careful and heart-stopping as our descent was, our scramble for the top is mad, desperate, all instinct and adrenaline. Rhodes is first, scouting the way and calling back; I follow him, glancing back at our guide, whose terror is unconcealed, and Stark, bringing up the rear. I should look where I’m going. One false step could mean death, and not just for me -

_SNAP!_

If the world broke in two, it couldn’t be louder. I turn back, expecting to see our two companions falling to their deaths, Hekla’s latest conquest. Instead I see Stark’s face, wide with horror, his mouth beginning to form a word - and then there’s a crunching pain in my ribs.

And then, nothing.

* * *

The gaps between the raw planks of the shack’s floor spat and whistled, hissing steam. Every now and then one of the boards rattled, jolted out of place by a particularly strong blast of scalding vapor – and from below, far below, came the clapping sound of the hot spring, the echo of boiling water dashing itself against rock in the darkness. Nature didn’t need a chronicler with a flair for drama, for adventure: here, where the strength of the very core of the earth threatened constantly to burst forth and reduce an entire country to nothing but a scar in the desolate ocean, hell was easy to imagine. It was malevolent, intentional - positively infernal.

And in this old steam bath propped over Banner’s hot spring - it felt _fantastic_.

Seated on a bench, a towel wound around his waist less for decency than to guard against splinters (he never liked to say that something was the _last_ thing he needed, because the universe had proven to have a sense of humor, but – they were high enough on the list), Tony eased against the wall, the muscles in his back coming loose with what he could swear was an audible groan, something in his joints melting like butter. The darkening bruise that flying chunk of rock had left just under his ribs was, admittedly, not likely to be improved by this kind of immersion, and he was already feeling a little lightheaded (although that could also have been the fact that he hadn’t slept the night before, mashed onto a bedroll by the stove with Rhodey), but it was worth it, to sit here in this close, clean little shack, enveloped in an impenetrable cloud of steam, and feel himself coming apart. In a good way, for once.

The darkness would have been complete, if not for the moonlight seeping in through the slats under the roof. It was soft, dim – but the haze carried it in diminishing layers all the way to the floor. He shut his eyes and tried to picture it on the icy lake outside, on the barren black hills. But the pictures in his mind glowed too bright, burned steadily hotter and hotter, until everything was engulfed in that eerie pulsing rose and copper; he saw it all again, the way it had seemed to _move_ , to swirl within itself and then somehow to recoil when Banner had stepped up to it; he saw that poisonous marrow waiting to bleed out of the ground, and it was so real that it flashed across the backs of his eyelids, and he sucked in a breath, opened his eyes –

The door had opened. The light was the moon. He could see the steam billowing out into the sky. 

“Get _in_ ,” he growled. “Or shut the door.”

It was difficult to see who’d come to keep him company, half because of the fog, half because his eyes had grown too accustomed to the dark – but Rhodes’s bulk was missing, and Banner wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to be contrary. (And then, he thought he caught a gleam, in that colorless wash, of something copper rose.) Potts rustled onto the bench beside him. The door creaked shut.

“I don’t think this is first-rate first aid, for that bruise.”

“I really don’t care.”

She sighed – from frustration or satisfaction, he wasn’t sure. The spring gave a sudden and powerful exhalation, and underneath it there was the faint rush of her breath drawn through her teeth.

But when she spoke, her voice was steady – as always. He imagined her setting her feet back down onto the hazard that was the floor, determined. (How tired was he, that that was what he was imagining?) “I’m taking that for myself, you know. When we publish.”

“What – the bruise?” He laughed – and tried to swallow it back before it ended in a labored cough. “You can’t have it. I came by it honestly. Hekla chose _me._ ”

“It reads better. Not that there isn’t something appealing - something romantic, you know, about the _wounded hero_.” She must have sensed his impending grin, because she added, in a tone that would have withered Banner’s five hundred-year moss: “In a lowest common denominator sort of way.”

“And what are you – the damsel in distress? I didn’t realize that was high art.”

“It isn’t. It captures a broader audience. If you’re a noble invalid –“

“Hey –“

“– Then all the girls swoon over you, sure –“

“Exactly –“

“– But where does that leave the rest of your audience? Out in the cold?”

“What,” he said, dry, curling his toes warily around the sharp, uneven edge of one of the floorboards. “They don’t want to _be_ me?”

“Not when you can’t stand up straight. Anyway, it’ll make a stellar illustration. You can carry me out of a mountain.”

“Have Rhodey do it. I can carry our faint-hearted Lieutenant, who collapsed at the first sign of danger.” Two could play at the game of lies - call it _imagination_. “‘Swooned,’ maybe? I don’t have a head for poetry.”

“And why would I slander poor Lieutenant Banner?”

“Because he’s a pompous, self-righteous prick?”

“But not a coward. Did you see his face, when we were climbing out? I doubt he’d have broken a sweat, if it hadn’t been a thousand degrees.”

Tony scoffed, perhaps a little weak. “Don’t go easy on him just because he’s sweet on you.”

“Oh, please.”

“He _is_. You don’t know how many cold, empty nights he’s passed with no one but Frank Finlay to -”

“I’m not Frank Finlay.”

“No, you have _considerable_ advantages over anyone named Frank.”

“I’d say he’s been widowed within the past couple of years.”

“Well, what does that have to do with anything?”

She sighed; Tony resisted the urge to draw attention back to his status as the wounded hero with a manful, stoic whimper. 

Silence settled around them – or, not silence, but something that felt as natural and as unobtrusive as nothing at all; it was the earth made audible, the _basso continuo_ of a power so ancient its origins were nothing more than the stuff of legends, reduced even by the most sophisticated of scientists to something like a complex question mark, by some of time’s preeminent sages to something nameless, known only as _the word_. It was, in a way, humbling to be so near to it, to be present in a place that allowed a glimpse of the beginning of the world –

Tony yawned. “This place makes me feel like I’m swimming in gin.”

“And you said you didn’t have a head for poetry.”

“Not unless I’m drunk, I guess.” He paused, pushing aside the hair that had long ago drooped down to stick to his forehead. His breath was coming a little shallow; he rested a hand on the plate across his chest, which was, of course, quite warm. “Is that why you do it? Poetry?”

“I _know_ you know how much I’m paid.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He shifted, turning to try to look at her now that his eyes had readjusted; she was just a ghost, a grey shadow in the corner, the shape of her faintly outlined in the glisten of the moisture on her body. “You could do plenty of things and get paid. _And_ not have to tell everyone your boss carried you down the mountain.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fewer things than you might expect, I think.”

“I can think of a –“

“I’m sorry – I do that, sometimes. I really ought to stop. I say that I don’t know, and I say things like _I think_ , when I know damn well there aren’t that many things I could do that wouldn’t make everyone think I was being carried.”

There was an alkaline edge to her voice – dry, old, pure. After a moment, Tony turned his eyes back up to the fragments he could see of the moon.

Some time later, he stretched his legs, trying to flex something nagging out of his back; it snagged on the pain in his side, and he let out a strangled sort of scoff of frustration. For a beat, two – Pepper didn’t say anything.

But then he felt her move closer – just a turn of her body, maybe. In the dark, it was so hard to tell. “How can I help?”

“Just stay a while.”

“Not very long. I’ll suffocate.”

He drew in a breath – too wet, too laden to be satisfying – and let it out in a large, barking _hah_. “You and me both.”

They sat without saying anything, over that vent in the earth. After a while, the sounds of the spring faded into nothing for them; soon after that, they left, throwing coats over their mess of towels and stuffing their feet into their unlaced hiking boots. The surface of the lake outside was sluggish, chilled. It was quiet. The path back to the house was just too rough to take quickly, and Tony, who felt every step in the bottom two (maybe three?) of his ribs slowed them up considerably. By the time they arrived at the door, Pepper - tucked helpfully under his arm, although she was providing more warmth than support - was shivering in violent, intermittent bursts. 

The windows were dark. Banner would be on the little cot bed he’d dragged out the night before, either asleep or pretending to be (he’d been keeping things damned close to the vest - if he had any theories about what had caused those tremors, that threat of an eruption, he wasn’t sharing); Rhodey would be on the bedroll they’d thrown out on the floor, sleeping like a rock and just as hard to move. Pepper had a bed waiting for her, at least, rough as it was. “Go on in,” he said, not exactly relishing the thought of letting her see him struggle his way through pulling off his shoes. “See you bright and early. Well - early.”

She crouched down without replying, settled her hands at either side of one of his boots, and looked up at him, one eyebrow set in a stern arch. He rolled his eyes, braced his shoulders against the door, and lifted his foot.

“Why do you do this?” he asked (mostly to cover that stoic, manful whimper) as she tossed his boot aside. “Come with me, I mean. You could make this stuff up from New York, if you wanted. What you’re publishing - it isn’t real.” None of it had ever been entirely true, perhaps - there were always exaggerations. But this was a different animal, operating under the restrictions of classified information, military censors.

“No, it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a story I can tell.” She tugged at his ankle until he set his bare foot reluctantly down on the ground, and lifted the other. “There’s always something to be teased out. If I’m not here - I can’t find it.”

“I could give you reports. Files. Pictures. You could piece something together.”

“I could tell the story you told me, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wouldn’t sell.”

“I really think it would.”

“No.” Depositing his shoe to one side, she stood and toed out of her own boots - and smiled up at him, a wry, appraising sort of smile, one that instilled in him the not unfamiliar desire to slip into an artful, insouciant slouch. “What comes out of here,” she said, raising one finger to hover half an inch in front of his lips, “isn’t very interesting.”

“Thank you, Miss Potts.”

“You’re very welcome. It’s not interesting on its own, is what I mean. It’s when you set it side by side with what’s in here,” she said, her hand traveling further up to make one gentle tap at his forehead, “that makes it worth the read.”

“What - are they different?”

“Don’t even try.”

He grinned; his eyes fell to her mouth, watching the slight tuck and twitch where it was pursed against a smile. “All right. You might not like what’s up there, though. Some of it isn’t very nice.”

“I didn’t say it made you good. I said it made you interesting.”

Tony laughed. It was immediate - automatic - defensive, a spring-loaded shield - but it must have snapped up just half a second too slowly, because something in her face seemed to fall. Her gaze dropped from his face, and her hand, too, sunk to hang just over his breast. The line of her mouth faltered, opened -

He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. So he kissed her - straightening off the door, ignoring the deep, aching tug in his side, he leaned forward and caught her hand in his own, and he kissed her. She tasted like cold, sulfur, the salt of sweat, and for a moment she didn’t move at all, but when she did, it was soft, her lips parting as though to draw in a sigh.

It felt to him like she was … sorry.

He drew back. Neatly, with an effortlessness born of long practice, he suppressed the standard tics and tropes of embarrassment, the ducked chin, the averted eyes, the cough; they were ungallant, a shirk, a little plea for mercy from someone who, often as not, was in no position to give it. He liked to think he wasn’t ungallant.

He liked to think a lot of things.

“I’m sorry.” Before he released her hand, he smiled - tired, kind, but ironclad. No more slipping here. “That was stupid.”

She did her part - she bucked up, and slipped back into her own arch and armored mannerisms. If they weren’t as well-oiled or as solid as his own, if her brow wavered and her smile shook - well. Not everyone had the benefit of his experience.

“Well,” she replied, in a passable scold. “I’d turn you out, but I think we’d all prefer you unfrozen, tomorrow.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

“Miss Potts.”

He stepped aside to let her by; he’d give her a minute or two to settle in, before he stumbled over to try to steal half a blanket from Rhodey. As he counted down the seconds from a hundred, leaning the back of his head once again against the door, he watched the bright little plume of steam curling up from behind the hill, reaching, silver, into the sky, and disappearing over a world that seemed as bleak and lifeless as the moon.

* * *

Back beneath the hulking weight of Hekla, things seemed, strangely, more alive. Down here, where fumes and fire made most life impossible, there was movement, sound, a sense of urgency - the rock dripped, the earth groaned. The mountain’s strange, sinister core glistened.

The sound of gunfire from high, high above helped add to the excitement, of course. So did Banner’s tense and creasing brow, the futile fidgeting of his hands. The knowledge that something had gone well and truly down the tubes was always good for a thrill.

Tony had been unsurprised, that morning, to learn that Banner had a plan. He’d been equally unsurprised (but rather more vexed, after a restless night, another breakfast of tough lamb and bread, and a needle to the side full of only moderately effective painkiller) to learn that its details were largely secret - that Banner wanted them to follow him into hell on little more than a _trust me_. The whole thing had nearly fallen apart, not exactly helped along by Banner’s assertion that even if he’d _wanted_ to explain his idea, Tony would have needed a couple years of intensive tutoring - but in the end, the decision had been made for them. One of Banner’s monitoring apparatus had detected another party on the path to Hekla. 

Timetables set on someone else’s terms made for bad plans. Tony hadn’t liked it, but the necessity was clear. His insistence that Pepper and Rhodey stay aboveground had been met with ready consent - someone, after all, had to forestall the Germans.

And now - here they were, Banner, keeping well back from the lurid, golden core, hunched with worryingly intense focus over something that looked very much like a bomb; Tony, fiddling with his ventilator and coiling and uncoiling a length of cable just for something to do; and, out in the open air, the sound of Pepper and Rhodey, forestalling merrily away.

“We need to get out of here, Lieutenant.”

“It isn’t ready.” The lack of a smart response was _not_ reassuring. “Just - wait.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Banner’s reply, after a reluctant hesitation, was grim: “The timer.”

“Move.”

Without so much as a grumble, Banner stood - and Tony sank to his knees beside the contraption, handing off his torch. It was an explosive device, simple enough in its basic components - with a few pieces added here and there, the function of which he could only guess at - even if its payload was, apparently, a secret too closely guarded to share with a man who’d just climbed into an active volcano with its creator for the second time in as many days. It was meant to render harmless whatever active component made the core an attractive weapon, he knew that much; and it was dead certain to cave in untold tons of rock. The specifics were hazy. The result was fairly straightforward.

And the timer was just a timer.

Slowly, with extreme caution, Tony peeled back the face on the timing mechanism, settling himself into that steady, even layer of his mind - the one he only ever seemed to find when he was immersed in the current of one all-encompassing problem, following it like water through the flaws in a seal. It served him well in times like these, when, under immense pressure, he had to set himself to a long and arduous spell of devoting his entire attention to unending minutiae -

 _Oh._

Well. That long, arduous spell of unbroken focus had lasted about three seconds. “I think I’ve found your problem, Lieutenant.”

There was no _thinking_ about it. The insides of the timer were shockingly corroded. It was something of a wonder, he reflected idly, that they hadn’t already blown themselves to smithereens. A wire fused one way, you died; another, and you lived to understand how very, very fucked you were.

Banner stooped in over his shoulder with the torch. “Oh, God.”

“What did you do,” Tony asked, not quite able to resist flashing him a filthy look, “build it _in_ the steam bath?”

“Oh, _God_.”

“We’re going back up.” Tony stood again, the pain in his side flaring faintly through the painkillers - but ebbing in the face of the considerable adrenaline involved in realizing one was standing next to a faulty bomb. “Let the Germans come down here if they want to. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and one of them will sneeze.”

“We can’t leave it -”

“Well, we sure as hell aren’t carrying it up!”

“No - we can’t do that, either. If they get their hands on _this_ …” Banner made a quick, shallow gesture at the bomb, covert, as though he were afraid of offending it. More secrets; more stratagems. “No. It has to be destroyed.” His hand rose to the ventilator strapped across his face, giving him the aspect of a man in awe. For a moment he was quiet, and then his words came out a little distant - flat, even for the filtered, faraway sound of any voice behind a mask. “I’ll set it off.”

Tony shifted his weight from one foot to the other, that antsy feeling starting up in him that he’d only recently agreed to recognize as _unhappiness_. “We’ll think of something. Come on - if we hurry, we might not miss the fight.”

“I’m staying.” Banner handed him back his torch. “It’s all right. The job’s done - this will finish it. I was hoping to be able to send back a sample of some of the inert material from the rubble, but we can’t have everything.”

“Don’t be _noble_.”

“I’m really not. Go - now. I’ll give you … fifteen minutes.” The corners of his eyes tightened in something Tony suspected was meant to be a smile. “Less, if I hear you get shot.” With that, he turned away, settling his attention once again on the bomb, studying it without touching it - without advancing on it at all. He seemed entirely too composed - but perhaps that was just the sudden, marked absence of his brittle peevishness.

Tony swallowed. The bitter taste of canned air was thick in the back of his mouth. “You’re not staying.”

“Yes, I am -”

“I'm staying.”

There was a pause before Banner turned his head; by the time Tony could see his profile, his face was mostly blank and even, but there was the last vestige of something retreating from it - surprise. “That’s very kind, but, to be perfectly honest, you’re not really the company I’d envisioned for my final moments.”

“Tell me about it.” Tony found himself latching onto that surprise, driven by it - it was perverse, of course, to blow himself to hell to prove somebody wrong (less perverse, he felt, if the target audience was larger), but among the other reasons he’d thrown himself into the gaping mouth of death, it ranked squarely in the top third. Higher, maybe, if it was - as this felt - something that was _right_ ; something that was good. 

Banner, however, looked increasingly perturbed. “It doesn’t make sense for you to stay,” he said, his words hurrying along one after the other, more insistent by the moment. “You see that. There isn’t any point.”

“No - you’ve got it backwards. There isn’t any point in _you_ staying.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Like you said - you still have work to do. Whatever all this is,” he said, giving an offhand wave to their surroundings, “it’s important enough that a handful of major international powers are willing to throw themselves at this godforsaken rock to get it. I don’t know the first thing about it. You do.” He smiled; it was only slightly acidic. “And my formal education might not be up to your rigorous standards, but I think I can manage to set off a bomb whose fuse you’ve very helpfully cut down to nothing.”

The offer hung between them in silence. Tony felt as though it were suspended from his neck; every second of maintaining that jaunty posture, the dry, flippant angle of his head, was backbreaking labor. He’d never valued his life very highly, anyone could see that, but handing it over still felt as though it must mean _something_ \- he was suddenly keenly aware of how acutely he needed it not to be dropped like an unwelcome handshake.

Banner’s eyes narrowed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Tony blinked. “What?”

“It would look wonderful - a spectacular ending. Noble. They’re probably rename the mountain, isn’t that right?”

It was rare that Tony was speechless, and rarer still that he allowed anyone to see that they’d scored a hit - but the depth of the sting was too great. He felt his mouth contort; he sucked in a breath. “You -”

“This is a dangerous place. And a poorly understood one - there’s a lot of great work to be done here, important work. No one needs your _fans_ ,” Banner spat, his shoulders almost heaving with the contempt of it, “crawling all over it to pay their respects. This isn’t your story.” He thrust his hand toward the passageway leading up and out of the mountain. “Now get out - and go do something useful, for Christ’s sake. Publish whatever fairytale your hack writer’s cobbled out of this, and work on hauling your country the rest of the way out of neutrality, if you’re dead set on doing something _important_.”

The ventilator deadened some of the heat of his words; but a slight, metallic echo rang behind them in the silence. Tony stared straight at him, all the wryness and affect gone out of him - he was just fixed, squared up, not quite belligerent, but as hardened and invulnerable as a breakwater stone. 

“There’s a pack of dispatches,” Banner continued, smaller, but not softer. “Inside the floorboard underneath the center of the table. Send those.”

Tony jerked his head: _fine_.

“And - a letter. If you don’t mind.” The discomfort in his voice was clear; painfully awkward, in a man not accustomed to asking for anything. “Just under the lamp. By the bed.”

“Of course.”

Banner nodded. If he was relieved, it didn’t show. “Well. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Banner held his hand out; Tony left it there, and turned, and went. _Fifteen minutes._

He made it, despite the pain in his side and the fatigue corroding every part of him, in twelve. It was easy, burning anger for fuel, to do things that might otherwise have seemed impossible. It was easy, when looking down, or back, or _in_ was such a hateful prospect, to keep your eyes forward and not to deviate from the road you’d set yourself. He felt almost exhilarated when he found the open air again, when he felt the cold on his face and sucked in a full, natural breath. He felt the opposite of exhausted. He must have looked like an absolute demon when he climbed out onto the ridge, blackened and huge, with hate in his eyes, fire in his hand, and a shadow twenty feet long - a man stumbled to a stop in front of him, pistol drawn, sallow with fear. 

Tony smashed the torch into the side of his face. He spun with the impact, fired at nothing - and Rhodey shot him in the head.

The body fell at his feet. He was vaguely aware of others littering the ground - he didn’t look at them. Instead, he watched the man’s blood pour out into the snow. The wound was hideous, ragged and wide, but it was better, he thought, than looking Rhodey in the face. “We have to go,” he croaked, his feet carrying him down the slope. “We have - two minutes. Where’s Pepper?”

“Getting the Jeep.” His arm hooked around Tony’s neck. He didn’t ask where Banner was. “Thank god.”

“You’re all right?” Rhodey was limping - a fine pair they made.

“I’m good.” He let go of Tony, grabbed his arm, and pointed in the direction of the growing sound of a sprinting engine. “We’re good. Come on.”

* * *

December 24, 1939. Reykjavik.

The Heart of Hekla is destroyed. 

In the end, it was just as our guide told us: true valor conquered all. But what he didn’t say - what perhaps he didn’t know - was that the cost was very high. What good is bravery if it lies at the bottom of an unfathomable wreckage? What reward can he hope for, who threw his life down so the rest of us (so many unaware of his sacrifice - until now) could keep on living? Is it truly victory if the mountain takes the price in blood?

I don’t know. But our fisherman friend gave his answer when he walked into the fire of Hekla, afraid but undeterred. I’m glad there are men like that, men who say _yes_ and _yes_ and _yes_ again - I’m glad to keep company with them, as I still do. And I’m very glad I haven’t yet been asked the question.

Because I’m not ready to stop. There’s so much more to see, so much more to tell. And soon, I’ll walk down the dock to our little fishing boat, where Tony Stark is already itching to weigh anchor, and we’ll leave this sleepy port and its looming, defeated mountain behind for something new. I can hardly wait to have the wind on my face, to cut out on the sea, to fly south until we find the sun again.

But before then, I have one last job to do.

Our fisherman’s boat is moored in a bustling, business-like section of the harbor - it’s all fish and fat and the clink of krónur here. The piers are thick with men in wind-battered coats and salt-crusted boots, and they all keep their heads down as they scurry along the slick routes between their ships and - I imagine - some warmer place of shelter. I know I’ll draw no shortage of attention, no matter my efforts to blend in. A hat and mackintosh can only do so much, particularly since I’m still moving slowly after my little run-in with Hekla’s claws, but I won't be dissuaded from this errand. Anyway, Rhodes is waiting for me not so far away. If need be, we can make a quick escape.

But no one says a word against me as I board the boat. If anyone notices me slipping inside its low, tiny cabin, they make no sign. 

My heart aches to see his belongings here, waiting in vain for his return - a pair of boots he’ll never wear again; a ledger hanging on a bulkhead, unbalanced, incomplete; a set of traps and nets meticulously cleaned and stowed. What I’m looking for I find tucked into the arm of the pilot’s chair. It’s a photograph, small and worn and pale. The girl’s face is very sweet, her eyes a little sad. I wonder how long it’s been since they were parted. I wonder if she’s even still alive.

I slip the photograph inside my glove. If she is alive, someday I will meet her - I’m sure of that. I’ll meet her in a world that’s safe, now, from one more terrible poison that evil men are trying constantly to let loose on the world; we’ll sit down together in some park or some cafe, surrounded by people like you and me, the readers and the dreamers who fill peaceful cities, the people of trains and bridges and shops and streets; and I’ll tell her about the man who gave his life for Tony Stark, in the Heart of Hekla.

* * *

Tony’s pistol was in his hand when he opened the door to Banner’s cabin - quickly, quietly. In this place, you could see someone coming for literally miles around, and he didn’t expect any trouble; it had been almost a full day since Pepper and Rhodey had dispensed with the entire German expedition, and no one had yet popped up to ask questions. But he was ready to put Iceland behind him, and if he could do it without any more fireworks, he would prefer that _extremely_. Watching a volcano sink in like a dented skull as you drove, as fast as your poor little Jeep would take you, just waiting for the spreading chasms in the earth to swallow you up, was enough to make any man crave a couple days of peace and quiet. And the plume of flame, that staggering, unnatural blue …

No, he was quite full up on excitement. At least until tomorrow.

Happily, the house was quiet. He stepped inside, shut the door, and pulled on the chain attached to the lightbulb in the kitchen corner. _The floorboard underneath the center of the table_. Without delay, and with a deep and visceral reluctance to look around at this dead man’s space, Tony shoved the table to one side. He knelt to pry up the floorboard -

And, out of the corner of his eye, caught just an inch - perhaps less - of a shifting shadow under the bed.

Casually, he pulled the floorboard out of its resting place. He hefted it between his hands, turned it over once, twice, as though looking for the papers’ hiding place (which was readily apparent) - and then he jammed it, _hard_ , into the space beneath the bed.

A man yelped in pain, and a second later Tony was on the bed, his pistol in his right hand, his left digging underneath to haul out whoever had decided to ambush him. He felt hair and fabric in his grip and he yanked, dragging a tall, violently cursing man into the light -

Banner threw his hands up in surrender, curled on his back, his glasses knocked halfway off his face. His teeth were gritted, there were new tears welling up in his eyes, and he appeared to be attempting to swallow another outpouring of profanity. Tony stared - and then let go of him as though he were red-hot. His gun was still trained on his nose.

Reaching slowly down with one shaking hand to right his glasses, Banner looked right down the barrel - which seemed, somehow, to calm him. “It’s _me_ ,” he growled.

“I’m sorry,” Tony replied, smooth and dark with anger. “Is that supposed to make me _not_ want to shoot you in the face?”

With another muttered curse, Banner clambered to his feet, clutching at his upper arm. He looked like he’d fought three wars since their last meeting. “My God, that smarts.”

Tony swung his legs off the side of the bed - and, with more hesitation than was probably merited, holstered his weapon. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“And you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.” Banner shut his eyes and drew a breath in through his nose. When he opened them again to dash the tears away with his sleeve, he looked once more almost composed. “I told you,” he said, a gentleness slipping into his voice that sounded, on him, entirely unnatural. “I wasn’t being noble -”

“How did you get out?” Even if he’d had the patience for apologies (and that had _better_ have been the beginning of an apology), the very last thing Tony wanted to do was revisit that conversation. 

“I’m not at liberty to -”

“Disclose that, I get it. _Fuck_ you.”

“We’re not allies, but -”

“Like hell we’re not!” Tony leapt to his feet and swung his arm in the direction of the window - which faced in the opposite direction of Hekla, but the point, he felt, was made. If that didn't make men allies, what on earth did?

“But we might be, someday.” Banner dragged a chair out from beside the table, and sat. “Consider this an incentive.” He rolled his shoulder back and forth, and winced. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“You _asked_ me to come back. To get your papers.”

“I really didn’t expect you to wait _twenty-four hours_. For Christ's sake, we're fighting a war.”

“You know, I was a little busy. Your dispatches were safe. We had an eye on the roads.”

“They would have been, yes. - Thank you, at any rate.”

Tony shrugged, averting his gaze without _quite_ rolling his eyes. “And the letter?”

“To my landlord." Banner sneered a little. "You expected - what? A sweetheart? A nice girl back in Gatineau?"

“I like to think anything’s possible, Lieutenant.”

Satisfied, apparently, that Tony hadn't broken anything, Banner lurched to his feet. "Well, it's been awful, Mr. Stark," he said, straightening his glasses, which had taken on a curious tilt. He hadn't come away entirely unscathed. "I really think you should go.”

“The feeling's mutual, I'm sure.”

“Please, tell Mr. Finlay - if she can wrangle it, I’ve always wanted a Viking’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’ll see what I can do." What Tony gave him wasn't quite a smile, but it was, for once, without strain. "Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

“Goodbye.”

Tony’s walk to his rendezvous with the boat was brisk, but indirect. Although he wasn’t carrying the sensitive package he’d been expecting to bring with him, he kept to the darkened edges of the cliff where the rocks met the ocean - he had no desire to run afoul of whatever search party the Germans might have mounted, not now, when he was so very full of the desire to get off this fucking rock that he could feel it lapping in the back of his throat. And then, every detour and double-back gave him another few moments to decide what to do about Banner.

Or - more precisely - what to do about the fact that he’d very clearly intended that Tony and his friends believe him to be dead. He was a man in a sensitive position; Tony had only a very hazy picture of his secrets and their consequences. Publishing an account of his survival seemed unnecessarily reckless. 

But that was Pepper’s job, of course. To take the truth as it happened, and to shape it into something that had meaning. No, he wouldn’t keep the facts from her - he’d give her what he knew. She was getting very good at figuring out the rest.

Soon Rhodey was clasping his arm and hauling him aboard, looking him over as he landed on that hateful, unsteady deck (god, the smell of it was making him sick already). “You didn’t find his papers,” Rhodey said - neutral, but somber.

Tony grinned. “Let’s break out whatever rotgut they keep on this godforsaken tub,” he said, grabbing onto the rigging as the deck lurched beneath him. “You’re going to _love_ this.”

He made sure of that, of course, with a few choice alterations to his story, an exaggeration here and there, a slight tightening of the language - but the core of it was the same, and the result was as he’d expected. Pepper was openly relieved, and half beside herself that she’d been given something as juicy as an honest-to-god miracle and couldn’t use it; Rhodey was only half-attending by the end, obviously already deep in speculation about what geological anomaly could have allowed any of this perfect nonsense to happen.

“He told me to tell you, Mr. Finlay,” Tony said, pouring himself a little more of the local delicacy, which had all the harsh and dirt-tinged overtones of scotch, with none of the body or the charm, “that he’s got a sweetheart - a nice girl back in Gatineau - he hasn’t been able to write to her in a few years. If you wanted to wedge her in somehow, I think he'd take it very kindly.” He did his best to gaze with a certain soulful tenderness into the distance, but that was difficult to do in a cabin whose walls were occupied primarily by poorly-cleaned fishing implements. “He’s a surprisingly sensitive man.”

An obvious lie - but one Pepper was happy to run with, at the moment. She all but fluttered out of her chair. “I have the perfect arc for it. Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to get my notes in order, and I’ll -”

“Hey - stay a while.” Tony set his hand on her arm, nodding at her half-full glass - and feeling, privately, that if anyone was going to get the benefit of whatever mood he’d inspired with talk of sensitivity and sweethearts, it should most certainly be him. “There’s no rush. Leave the work for a night, come on. It’s Christmas.”

She brushed his hand off with a small, exasperated sigh (undercut just slightly by a hint of a smile), stood - and plucked her glass up off the table. “Not until tomorrow, Mr. Stark.”

She left them sitting there, with a bottle, a box of stale crackers, and a companionable silence. The rock of the ship became almost soothing. Tony stretched his legs out, eased back into his chair, and tried for a few minutes, in vain, to find a position that didn’t aggravate his side.

“I have a report to write, too, I guess,” he said after a while. The instructions were in the packet he’d been given, along with their frankly pretty childish encryption, which he would, naturally, be altering: one copy to General Fury; one to Colonel Ross; destroy the original records. “Not as much fun as hers. But the magical reappearing Canadian spy should spice it up a little.”

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint them. An imploding volcano can only carry a story so far.”

“It’s a damn shame. All _I_ have to work with is the truth.”

“Well,” Rhodey said, dragging the bottle squarely into his own quadrant of the table, and waving Tony off. “Better get started.”


End file.
